9. Cyaire #3
Then Jamie looks up and for a second our eyes meet across the rink.
The distance between us feels both vast and insignificant.
He smiles, a genuine expression that reaches his eyes, and my pulse does something embarrassing before he turns his attention back to Kirk.
The smile shouldn’t feel significant, but my pulse spikes anyway.
My stomach flutters with actual butterflies, but it does all those things and more.
I hear Cameron’s voice in my head, his words from lunch still floating around like a mantra that won’t be dismissed. “The guy’s standing fifty feet away, Cy. Only you can decide how you want to spend the time you do have.”
Damn him for being right. I blow out a breath, watching it mist slightly in the arena’s chill. The decision feels ridiculous and necessary all at once. Then again, spending the last week finding excuses not to make it feels considerably more ridiculous.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I hand my script to a passing production assistant and walk in his direction.
Every step feels strangely deliberate, like I’m crossing some invisible threshold.
Jamie notices me coming before I reach him and meets me halfway, stepping off the ice with the fluid grace that makes everything look effortless.
His expression shifts into something curious and he tilts his head at me in question.
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah.” I hear the nervousness in my own voice and hate it.
I stop beside the boards and immediately wonder why I suddenly feel sixteen years old again.
This shouldn’t be hard, I’ve performed in front of millions of people, given interviews to hostile journalists, navigated red carpets and award shows.
Hell, this man knows me intimately, has seen me at my most vulnerable.
Yet here I am, tongue-tied like a teenager.
“Good.” He rests his forearms against the top of the boards, the casual gesture making him seem more approachable. “You looked serious for a second there.”
“I was working up the courage to ask a difficult question,” I reply, aiming for light but probably missing the mark.
One corner of his mouth lifts in amusement. “Should I be worried?”
“Probably not.” I smirk, feeling slightly more like myself.
His smile grows slightly and the sight of it does absolutely nothing useful for my concentration or my ability to form coherent sentences.
I glance toward the arena entrance where people are beginning to filter out into the Seattle evening, then look back at him.
“You busy?”
Jamie studies me for a moment, his brown eyes unreadable in the arena lighting. “Depends.”
“On?” I lift a brow in question, trying to project more confidence than I feel.
“What you’re asking.” He shifts slightly on his skates, the small movement drawing my attention to the easy way he balances.
I rub the back of my neck, the motion feeling embarrassingly uncertain. “I’m tired of only talking to you when somebody puts skates on me.”
That earns a genuine laugh from him, warm and unguarded, and I find myself watching his mouth, enjoying the smile I put there far more than I should.
“So, what are you proposing?” Jamie asks, straightening to his full height, making me incline my head to look up at him properly.
I gesture vaguely toward the exit where the last of the crew are packing up their equipment.
“A walk?” I ask, completely fumbling this exchange in a way that would embarrass me if it were anyone else. Real smooth, Cyaire. Real smooth.
His eyebrows lift in surprise. “A walk?”
“Seattle’s nice.” I gesture around the arena in lieu of the actual city beyond these walls, as if the industrial space somehow represents the Pacific Northwest’s natural beauty.
“That’s your sales pitch?” he replies playfully, and I can hear the laughter threading through his voice.
“It’s all I’ve got.” I shrug, shoving my hands inside my jacket pockets. A jacket that I’m sure someone is going to come hunt me down for if I don’t hurry this along.
Jamie shakes his head, but the smile never leaves his face. There’s something in his expression that I can’t quite read, surprise, maybe, or something warmer.
Then, after a beat that stretches just long enough to make me worry I’ve overstepped, he says, “Alright.”
Something in my chest loosens at such a simple word, like a knot I didn’t realize was there suddenly coming undone.
“Alright?” I repeat, needing the confirmation.
“Alright.”
The smile he gives me this time is warm enough to make me forget the last ten hours of filming entirely, erasing the exhaustion and the repetitive takes and the constant pressure of performance.
Behind me, I hear Cameron cough, poorly masking what is clearly a laugh. I’m sure he’s heard every awkward word of this exchange and is enjoying my discomfort immensely.
I don’t turn around. I already know exactly who he’s laughing at, and I find I don’t care. I know exactly what I want to do with the time I have left in Seattle, and for once, I’m not going to let fear or overthinking stop me from taking it.